


When the Hand You Want to Hold is a Weapon and You're Nothing But Skin

by gremlins-came-and-got-me (Scared_Beings_in_the_Dark)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 2020 fic, Chastity Device, Crisis Hotline Worker Stiles, Dead Hale Parents, Derek is Abused, Domestic Violence, F/M, Future Epilogue, Hopeful Ending, Kate Argent is her own warning, Kate is Abusive, Kate is very abusive, M/M, Non-Con Sounding, Older Stiles, Partner Abuse, Past Underage Non-Con Relationship, Past abduction of a minor, Past underage references character that "aged" out of being a minor, Rape With An Object, Younger Derek, dark story, domestic abuse, graphic depictions of rape, injured derek, pandemic fic, quarantine fic, rape discussion, rape scene, resourceful stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:01:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28035831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scared_Beings_in_the_Dark/pseuds/gremlins-came-and-got-me
Summary: Stiles works as a hotline crisis counselor, dealing with male victims of abuse. Most of his callers are embarrassed, ashamed, beaten down, and at the end of their ropes, and Stiles helps where he can. He’s doing good in the world. And then 2020 happens. The city is locked down, and everyone is siphoned into quarantine. That’s when Stiles hears something from his downstairs neighbor, something disturbing, something he deals with every day in his work. His downstairs neighbor is being horribly abused by his partner, and Stiles can’t sit idly by.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Kate Argent/Derek Hale
Comments: 48
Kudos: 238





	When the Hand You Want to Hold is a Weapon and You're Nothing But Skin

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from _Graveyard_ by Halsey.
> 
> Read the tags. Read them again. I tried to warn for everything. I probably missed something. if you think something is missing from the tags, let me know. However, if you want to scream at me for this story, I'd suggest using your back button. The ending is hopeful for Sterek. Up front: Kate's punishment isn't death.
> 
> The rape scene takes place from "Derek is numb" and goes to "Then he passes the fuck out" so you can skip it if you need to. It is the fourth section and Derek's second.

~ * ~

Stiles is among the first to be sent home when the order comes down the line. He’s a rambler, always talking, things always in his mouth. But he’s a good worker.

His boss, Finstock, took one look at him and said, “Bilinski, I love you, but no. Go home where you can’t get this new virus ‘cause when we get through to the other side, I’d like you to be there too.”

“Wha?” Stiles had a mask on, he’s gloved up, and he was one of the lucky few to snag a large pump of hand sanitizer. If anything, he’s the most prepared of all of them, but he isn’t the only one sent home. He’s just the “most healthy” of them. He has no invisible disabilities, no illnesses, immune system firing on all cylinders, but a rule is a rule, he supposes and he goes home again with everything he needs to continue working from home while they figure out this “new precedent.”

It’s only been about two weeks, but Stiles is already sick of hearing all the new phrases authority is using to describe the current situation. _We’re in this together_ , the ad blares when Stiles stares at his TV screen in a daze because he can’t remember what day it is until he checks his phone and it’s only Saturday.

He works next weekend, which will be better for keeping track of time, but still. He didn’t realize just how horrible it would be not leaving his apartment for anything.

Even stepping out onto his balcony does nothing to stem the creeping wave of depression he can feel surging in his veins.

He’s not getting enough dopamine these days, if he ever was, and it makes him itchy and angry. The only time he’s truly calm is when he answers his phone and settles into his carefully crafted crisis line counselor. Then, instead of being Stiles or even Mieczysław. He’s Mikey, or Michael, calm, composed, cheerful, and helpful.

Stiles has a good reputation. He helps people. He’s very good at getting information or playing along with the callers as needed.

He’s a little worried that one of his regulars, a guy who calls like clockwork on Thursday nights, hasn’t reached out in a few weeks. Stiles has been trying to get him to turn in his girlfriend for the frankly frightening amount of abuse she’s put the guy through.

With the whole city on lockdown, Stiles worries that he’ll never get to hear Derek’s voice again, that he’s failed at getting him away.

Kate, Derek’s girlfriend has isolated Derek, taking him away from any friends or support he might have had. Then she systematically broke him.

Derek has called sometimes completely worried that Kate hasn’t gone to work; that she’s waiting to see what he’s doing after she’s beaten him.

He tells Stiles of all the things she’s done to him, all the ways she controls his time and body. He has no computer, doesn’t have any family’s phone numbers, never goes out, even on the days that Kate works.

The only thing Derek ever does that is against Kate’s rules is he calls Stiles, or Mikey, as he knows him. And only on Thursdays when Kate has meetings that stretch into the night.

Derek has no job, no way of getting money, no way out. In fact, he only has the phone because Kate needs to be able to contact him at all times.

Stiles had asked once how Derek managed to call him without Kate figuring out the ruse, and Derek told him that he’d found Stiles’ card on his balcony, before he wasn’t allowed out anymore, had memorized the number, and dials it every time, then deletes it from his phone.

Kate hasn’t confronted him about the calls because Derek somehow is able to hide the phone bill from her. Stiles thinks that Derek is using a program to spoof calls on his cell because the number is never the same two times in a row. Or, more likely, Kate just has her bill on auto-pay and Derek’s calls to the center don’t register a red flag. He knows their number is disguised as a grocer so that abusers who check phone records and call in can’t take it out on their victims.

However Derek’s doing it, it’s a dangerous game. Always is. Stiles wants to send cops to Derek’s apartment, but he can’t get his address and Derek’s too paranoid to stay on the line long enough for a trace to be set up—not that Stiles can get one anyway. He’d need a warrant for that.

Kate’s going to slip up though, and when she does, Stiles will bring the wrath of the whole city down on her.

For now though, Stiles heats up some soup in the microwave, settles on his couch, and stares at his television.

He doesn’t comprehend the show he’s watching, doesn’t taste the soup. Instead, he sinks into his seat and listens to the background noise of his downstairs neighbor screaming at her lazy, good-for-nothing husband. Sound travels through the registers. Stiles hadn’t realized just how much until the woman downstairs got stuck at home too and suddenly her good-for-nothing husband started getting screamed at all the time.

Apparently GFNH can’t boil water to save his life.

All she does is yell, but Stiles still kind of wishes GFNH would wise up and get out. It’s not healthy to be screamed at damn near every day. A lot of people don’t realize it, but verbal abuse still counts as abuse.

Of course, it could be just because of the pandemic, because they’re all locked away in their apartments with no reprieve.

There is a sudden shout of pain, and Stiles sits bolt upright. Thankfully, his bowl is empty and he sets it aside as quietly as he can.

The shout makes him think of Derek, but he’s not sure why. He’s never heard Derek in pain. He glances down at the floor where he can still hear the woman yelling. The man repeats his cry of pain but it sounds a little muffled. Stiles tiptoes to his balcony, steps out into the cold March wind and crouches down.

The woman in the apartment below him stomps out onto their balcony. Behind her, Stiles can hear the man moaning.

“Oh shut up,” the woman, blonde, pretty aside from the blood decorating her shirt. “It’s not that bad. You’ve had worse.”

She looks up, and Stiles is so damn thankful that it’s the middle of March and night falls early. He’s encased in shadow, able to see her in the light from her apartment but she can’t see him. She huffs, cigarette smoke wafting up to him.

The man does stop moaning, but Stiles doesn’t think it’s because he’s taking the woman’s advice. He thinks maybe he passed out. Stiles has an overactive imagination, always filled with the worst things life has to offer.

He waits only as long as it takes for the woman to finish her cigarette and go back inside before he runs to his cell phone and calls his buddy in the nearby precinct, Jordan Parrish.

Parrish picks up rather quickly. “What’s up, Stiles?”

“Hey, can I get you to do a welfare check on one of my neighbors?”

“Oh? Which one?”

“The unit right below mine, 15-B. I heard a woman yelling and then her husband started making noise like he’d been injured. I don’t know if there are any weapons on site, and I don’t know anything else aside from the fact that they’re both still in there.”

“Okay, the unit below yours, you say?”

“Yeah. Can you hurry, please? The guy stopped making noise about ten minutes ago.”

“Okay. Stay in your apartment. I’ll call you if we need anything else from you.”

Stiles hangs up, makes sure the door leading out to the balcony is locked, a broom handle in the groove, and then sits on his couch again.

He strains his ears, but he still cannot hear the man. He hopes everything turns out okay.

Stiles eventually falls asleep before he gets any resolution.

~ * ~

Derek manages to drag himself into the bathroom and stand up, shakily. His eye is already swollen shut. He pokes it anyway. It’s squishy. Like always, but there doesn’t seem to be too much damage this time. What had hurt, what had made him cry, was Kate driving her foot again and again into his chest. He couldn’t draw in a full breath without it hitching and pain lancing up and down his side.

Broken ribs, he’d guess. He splashes cold water on his face, dries it carefully, and then goes back to the kitchen to finish cooking supper.

Kate sits at her desk, already on the phone with her father. Derek makes as little noise as possible. Not to eavesdrop, although that is an unintended consequence, but to keep from angering Kate again. He isn’t sure why she stopped or why she went to the balcony. Maybe it was because Derek had made noise and she wanted to be sure that none of their neighbors were spying on them.

He has just finished the intricate meal, various spices and meats, all cooked to Kate’s tastes, when there is a knock upon the door.

Derek slinks back into the kitchen, lets Kate get up to answer the door.

“Good evening, ma’am,” a man says. “Mind if we talk to you and your husband for a few minutes?”

Like a cop from a television show.

Derek can’t catch his breath, and it makes his ribs hurt worse.

“Honey,” Kate calls, and Derek steels himself. Then, he pastes a smile on his face and all but glides to Kate’s side. _Act like you’re in love_ , he reminds himself even as he shudders at the sight of two cops standing in the doorway. Derek had thought the pandemic stopped them from coming out. He guesses he was wrong. He’ll get it later, he’s sure.

The shorter cop gestures at his own eye. “What’s up with that?”

“Clumsy,” Derek manages to get out past numb lips. “I was on the balcony earlier and tripped.”

Kate smiles, sweetly. “He’s just so adorable, isn’t he? Always tripping over things. I keep telling him to put things away, but—” she shrugs “—I guess he knows better. Don’t you, sweetie?”

Derek nods. “Yeah.” His throat and mouth are too dry for any other words.

The cop who asked doesn’t look like he believes Derek. The other cop deliberately looks around the room at what’s visible. Derek panics for a moment, thinking that he’d bled on the floor and that the cop will find it.

“What’s this really about?” Kate asks. “We were just about to have supper, so if we can get this wrapped up?”

“We had multiple complaints about an argument that might have gotten out of hand.”

Derek inhales a little too much and doubles over in pain. The shorter cop steps in, ignoring Kate’s noise of protest. “Sir, are you okay?”

“Heartburn,” Derek lies, trying to straighten up. He takes a shallow breath, but Kate slams into his side, forcing him back from the cop, and it makes him yelp a little.

“Ma’am, step back.” The taller cop takes Derek by the elbow and leads him outside. The shorter cop blocks Kate from following them.

“What’s going to happen?” Derek asks. Kate has told him over and over again, and proven it too, that if the cops are involved, then she will claim she’s the victim. Derek may have a black eye and a broken rib, but he’s still stronger than her, still a man.

“First off, what was the argument about?”

Derek shrugs. “I don’t remember,” he half-lies. He knows it was because Kate was displeased, but he doesn’t remember what set her off. Lately, it seems as if just breathing or being in the same room, no matter how quiet, makes her mad enough to lose control.

“So what really happened to your eye?”

Derek shrugs again. “I told you: I slipped out on the balcony.”

“And your ribs?” Before Derek can react, the cop lifts his shirt. “Those are shoe prints,” he says.

Derek tugs his shirt down. “I’m fine. It’s nothing.”

The cop gives him a flat, disappointed look. It’s surprisingly effective.

“She loves me, okay? She doesn’t hurt me much.” Lies. If Kate can get away with it, and she has, for years and years, then she likes to make him cry, twist her knives, both physical and metaphorical.

“It’s still abuse, and you still have a choice.”

Derek stifles a laugh. He doesn’t have a choice. He tried once, shortly after Kate started hitting him, to go to a shelter. He got chased away.

“I’m not pressing charges,” he tells the cop, turns, and walks back to the apartment.

Kate looks relieved to see him, and the shorter cop glares at them as his partner hauls him out.

“Supper?” Derek whispers when Kate doesn’t say anything long after the door is shut and locked.

He expects the fist that glances off his face. He expects every blow she gives him, and he takes it silently.

Afterward, he drags himself to the bathroom. He stares at his face, at the bruises and cuts, at the way his front teeth look a little crooked.

He can’t help feeling that turning away the cops was his last chance. They won’t come back. Not if he doesn’t press charges.

And he can’t press charges. The city is in lockdown, there’s no where he can go. He doesn’t even know if he calls the hotline if he’ll get help that way.

Derek is going to die. He doesn’t know when, but it’s coming. He’s going to be just another type of statistic any day now.

~ * ~

Stiles’ week doesn’t get any better because the days bleed too much together even if he gets up, takes a shower, and puts on pants. Calls have significantly dropped, and Stiles knows the lockdown is what’s causing it. He knows that now the callers are trapped with their abusers, with even less chance of escape. He honestly wouldn’t be surprised if police see a sudden uptick in DV calls out.

Coroners will have more victims to process on top of the body count from the virus.

He keeps an ear out for downstairs, but all is quiet for now. Makes him think that the woman is biding her time. Or the cops visited because she’s sure as shit being careful right now.

She’ll slip up. They always do. And Stiles will be ready.

He goes about his routine, keeps wearing pants even if he feels like it’s a crock of shit right now. He also starts a journal, makes note of the birds that come to his balcony.

Before he knows it, he’s worked a full month of quarantine and there doesn’t seem to be any chance of it letting up soon. The governor keeps being attacked over how he’s trying to protect the people, and Stiles keeps helping victims trapped with their abusers. The ones that can call in when their abusers are recalled to work.

None of them are his downstairs neighbor though, and Stiles wishes he could sneak down and give his card to the guy.

Then, it happens. Things start reopening slowly. Stiles still isn’t allowed back at work, but he hears the woman downstairs leaving again.

And like clockwork, Derek starts calling the hotline again.

He’s hysterical whenever he’s passed to Stiles, having worked himself into a panic because he keeps thinking that either Kate is coming home early or she’s lying that her work reopened and she’s just waiting for him to slip up.

Stiles manages to calm him enough that he figures out Derek still has no finances, no job, barely any education past eighth grade, and is so scared of his partner that the bravest thing he does is call the hotline when she can’t find out. It’s like he knows the end is coming because he reveals something horrible: the woman has been having sex with him since he was a teen.

He tries searching for Derek through missing persons, but Derek never tells him his or Kate’s last names and refuses to tell him any physical descriptors. Stiles’ heart breaks, as it always does. There’s even less resources he can offer Derek to help him get away from his “partner.”

He offers to come get Derek himself. They’re both so desperate for him escape from Kate’s clutches.

“She wouldn’t let me go anyway,” Derek murmurs. Always quiet even in the middle of his panic attacks. “I think she’s got recording devices in the house,” he explains when Stiles tries to get him to speak up. “And I’m not allowed on the balcony. I think she’s got some kind of sensor.” Derek must glance at the clock because next he says, “I need to go. If I don’t finish the housework, she’ll get mad again.”

“Is she always mad now?” Stiles presses, but Derek is gone.

Finstock would tell Stiles that he’s done all he can, but until Derek is away from his abuser, Stiles thinks he won’t ever feel like he’s done enough.

Stiles takes a sick day after Derek’s most recent call and just sits out on his balcony, trying to memorize the skyline as if it’s going to be taken away from him, like it’s been taken away from Derek.

He knows of at least six friends of his that have been laid off because of the “unprecedented times” and have had to move already. He isn’t sure where he stands with the crisis center, but if he can’t be a body through the door, are they going to justify paying him?

He doesn’t know.

Below him, the downstairs balcony door slides open and the woman steps out, already lighting up a cigarette.

“For Heaven’s sake,” she grouses. “It was a love tap, Derek. Get over it.”

Derek? Stiles moves his foot slowly so that he can peer down through the grate at the woman. She’s sitting on an overturned metal barrel, cigarette dangling from her fingers. Her knuckles are bruised.

A love tap. As if. Looks like she hit a wall. Or her husband.

Derek.

Stiles’ head shoots up, mind spinning.

Could it be the same Derek as his Derek?

Statistically, it’s unlikely. New York City has a population of over eight million. There are definitely multiple Dereks, and they probably all spell their names differently. Stiles hasn’t run into another Mieczysław but that doesn’t mean there isn’t one running around somewhere.

Stiles goes inside, tiptoes across his floor until he’s in his bedroom, then he kneels down next to the register, listening.

Nothing.

Sometimes he can hear the couple downstairs when they have sex, so he was hoping that he’d be able to hear where the woman left Derek. Not in the bedroom, unless he isn’t making noise.

Stiles frowns to himself. Where would be the most likely place Derek could be?

If this is his Derek, probably the kitchen or bathroom, cleaning.

Stiles moves to his bathroom, listens at the register. Nothing.

In the kitchen, he has better luck. There’s water running. Dishes maybe.

Stiles waits. The woman has to come back in sometime.

After about fifteen minutes, she does. And she comes right to the kitchen. The water shuts off and they start talking, but Stiles can’t make out the words. The man’s voice is too low, and Kate isn’t loud enough to reach the register. She must be in the doorway then.

Stiles waits some more, but nothing else happens.

He sits on his couch when the water starts running again. Technically, he could go downstairs and check on his neighbor or send the cops back because of the “love tap” remark and the woman’s bruised knuckles, but would he be premature in doing so? What if the cops don’t find anything and then she really lays into her partner?

He keeps listening, long into the night, but he hears nothing else, and eventually he falls asleep still sitting on his couch.

~ * ~

Derek is numb. Everything hurts. Dry blood cracks and fresh blood wells up. His whole back is a mess. The belt Kate had used is lying on the floor, dried blood sticking it to the rug.

Kate is asleep on the bed next to him. If he shifts too much, she’ll wake up, and she might still be mad and start hitting him again.

He needs to take a leak and he wants to take a couple of painkillers before he has to clean up the mess, but he needs Kate to go to work. To leave him alone for a few hours.

He must make too much noise or move too quickly, because she wakes up a few minutes before her alarm. She looks at him, smiles at her handiwork: a darkening bruise on his jaw, handprints around his throat, scratches down his chest, bite marks on his stomach, and his dick stuck in the chastity device she designed especially for him.

“Good morning,” she says sweetly. “Why don’t you go get coffee started while I take a shower? If you finish early, you can join me.”

That could mean two things: one, Derek will actually get a shower today, or two, and the more likely of the options, Kate wants to continue her abuse, but she knows he’ll be loud this time so she wants the water to mask the sound of his cries.

Derek forces a smile even though his stomach is roiling bad enough that he’s nauseous and he’s shaking, but he can probably pass that off as blood loss or hunger spasms. He climbs off the bed and limps toward the kitchen. He knows Kate is watching him go, enjoying the belt marks on his back and the slim vase she left in him when she forgot that she’d crushed his junk and he couldn’t get hard.

He just wants the day to end before it’s begun so that Kate can go back to sleep without needing to hurt him more.

The punch to the face yesterday was all the warning he got before this latest round. All he’d been doing was cleaning. She’d come home early, caught him in the middle of still washing the dishes from breakfast and had hauled off and smashed him in the jaw. Then she’d gone to chain smoke a few cigarettes while she plotted what she wanted to do and he tried to hurry and finish his workload before she made it impossible.

Derek punches a few buttons on the coffee maker, glad that he remembered to set it up after breakfast yesterday.

Kate’s already in the shower when he slips into the bathroom.

She beckons him closer. He doesn’t even see the spiked brass knuckles she has on until they slam into his right pectoral. He grunts but doesn’t scream, just staring down at the four spikes puncturing his flesh. Blood runs in rivulets down his chest. Kate pulls them out, uses her other hand to spin him and press him against the shower wall. The water is too hot and too hard, and it makes the wounds on his back flare in agony.

Kate wriggles the vase, pressing it in deeper before pulling it out and setting it in the sink. Derek’s relief is short lived because she uses her shampoo bottle to penetrate him.

No lube and no prep make it near impossible, but Kate’s determination gets the bottle about halfway into him.

Derek has a hand in his mouth, biting down, trying to bear the deep ache as she shoves on the bottle.

She finally abandons it, picks up the hard-bristled brush. She uses it to scrape his back raw, using her tongue to lave the deeper lacerations.

And still the damn chastity device is stuck around his dick. Kate designed it to smash his balls flat, to sound his dick, and to prevent him from getting hard or ejaculating. If she doesn’t take it off before she leaves for work today, Derek thinks he just might go mad from the pain.

Kate grabs his hair, twists his head back even as she presses him into the wall harder. She kisses and bites at his lips until he lets her stick her tongue down his throat.

At the same time, she fumbles with the catch on the chastity device. When it falls off, Derek sobs in relief. And loses control of his bladder because Kate uses his minute relaxation to fully shove the shampoo bottle in him. He finally screams though because he can feel something tear inside. Kate leans her hip against the butt of the bottle, keeping it seated in him while she reaches around and jerks him off until he does ejaculate. She collects what she can despite the water washing things away and forces him to lick her fingers clean.

When she finally steps back and lets the bottle slide out of him, he collapses to the floor, curling down, trying to protect his most vulnerable areas. Kate just laughs at him, picks up her shampoo bottle, cleans the blood and shit off it and starts washing her hair.

Derek pulls himself out of the shower, crawls to the bedroom and onto the bed. So what if he gets it wet? He bled all over it yesterday. It’s not like he can do more damage.

Kate comes in a few minutes later, kisses his head, and gets dressed for work.

Derek manages to stay aware and awake until the door shuts behind her. Then, he passes the fuck out.

~ * ~

Stiles jerks awake when he hears his downstairs neighbor scream in obvious pain.

He jumps up, grabs his phone, and is halfway to dialing 9-1-1 when he stops. Did he really hear that? Or was he just imagining it because it will give him a way into the apartment?

Slowly, he clears his phone and sets it down. He needs more information.

He goes to the registers and listens. Nothing. Just the shower running in the bathroom.

No one is out on the balcony this early, and Stiles slips under the railing onto the fire escape. He climbs down one level and onto his neighbor’s balcony. Quietly, he steps around the barrel the woman sat on yesterday and up to the sliding door. The living room. Nothing moving. He moves down one window to the bedroom. Curtains pulled tight. No way to see inside. He goes back to the living room and sees a person, naked, wet, and bloodied, crawling from the bathroom to the bedroom.

As calmly as he can, Stiles goes back up the fire escape and into his own apartment.

He picks up his phone and dials 9-1-1, explains what he heard and what he saw, and then sits down on his couch.

The longer he waits, the more he worries. What if the woman goes to finish the job on the man before the cops get there? He’d looked to be in rough shape, back crossed with what looked like whip marks. Stiles hadn’t gotten a good enough look to see if that was all that had been done to him, but he feels like the answer is no.

Stiles’ leg is bouncing a million miles an hour and he can’t get it to stop. He stands up and starts pacing, not caring if the woman downstairs can hear him moving. For all he knows, that’ll keep her from hurting the man again.

He can’t take it any longer and creeps back down the fire escape. He hides behind the barrel and pokes his head up just enough to see into the living room. The woman is in the doorway, drinking a mug of coffee. She glances around, like she can feel Stiles’ eyes on her, and he ducks back down. When he chances another peek, she’s at the door, travel mug in one hand, keys in the other. She has some kind of backpack-purse slung over one shoulder. The door shuts behind her, and Stiles waits to a count of one hundred.

When she doesn’t come back, he inspects the sliding door, finding that there is an anomaly near the bottom—a laser sight. Just high enough that stepping over it might be awkward. It’s not too low to belly crawl under though.

The rest of the door doesn’t appear to be tampered with, and Stiles checks the lock. It’s easy enough to jimmy it open and drop down to slide under the laser with ease. On the other side, Stiles goes to the front door, checks it for more lasers. There’s another one. This one too low to crawl under. Easy enough to step over.

He turns his attention to the bedroom, following a trail of water and blood to the door. It’s locked shut. Stiles twists the knob, holding his breath in case it sets off an alarm. It doesn’t. Frustrated, Stiles tugs at his hair. Maybe the window can open? He crawls under the laser onto the balcony and goes to the window. No dice. It’s either locked or, more likely, nailed shut.

Stiles goes upstairs, grabs his junior lock picking kit. The one he spent a few summers ago learning how to use just because, and then goes back to the bedroom door.

It takes about thirty minutes before the door finally opens. There’s no lasers on this door, and Stiles steps into the darkened room. He flips on the light and then just stares at the scene in front of him.

The naked man is lying face down on the bed. His back has definitely been whipped. There’s a bloody belt on the rug next to the bed. There’s also bruising and blood on his buttocks. Stiles checks his pulse, relieved to find a steady beat under his fingers. Then he steps back and dials 9-1-1 again, wondering why exactly there hasn’t been a responding officer yet.

“Hey, yeah, this is Stiles Stilinski again. I need an ambulance to 107 Queenstower Apartments, Apartment 15-B. I’ve got a white male, unconscious, lacerations on his back.” Stiles ducks and bobs around the bed, trying to assess the man without touching him too much. “There’s bruising on his face, neck, chest, abdomen, buttocks.” The man rolls over slightly, and Stiles blanches at the sight between his legs. “Oh shit, his genitals too.”

“Okay, sir, an ambulance has been dispatched. Did you need police too?”

“Couldn’t hurt,” Stiles says. He doesn’t know if the woman will return. He doesn’t know if the laser sensors on the exits are the only precaution she’s taken to keeping her partner here. “Can you tell the paramedics that it’s likely he was sexually assaulted? The state of his genitals and the blood coming from his rectum are too much of a coincidence.”

“Are you able to stay with the victim?”

“Yeah.” Stiles clears his throat. “I’m not going to leave him. I work for a crisis hotline. My job is to help people like him.”

“Okay, stay on the line until someone arrives. Ambulance is ten minutes out. Officers are five.”

Stiles goes to the closet, answering as many questions as he can—he thinks the man’s name is Derek, unsure of spelling, he doesn’t know the woman’s name, she’s not here right now, but he doesn’t know if she’ll come back—while he packs a few outfits into a small carry-bag he finds. Then he unlocks the front door, tells the operator what he’s done, and sits on the bed next to the man, still not touching him.

Police arrive and start collecting evidence.

The man doesn’t wake up until the paramedics arrive, and then, blindly panicking, he flails around until he makes contact with Stiles.

“Kate?” he whimpers, shutting down.

Stiles takes a deep breath. That settles it then. This is his Derek.

“Sir, did you want to come with us to the hospital?”

Stiles agrees in a heartbeat. Derek will need someone on his side. Someone who won’t hurt him like Kate did.

~ * ~

Derek wakes up in the hospital. He gets a laundry list of things that are wrong with him: torn rectum, stab wounds on his right pectoral, lacerations and deep bruising on his back, bite marks all over his body, along with his healing ribs and fading bruises. He’s asked, over and over if his partner is the one who did this to him, but he knows if he tells on her, she’ll kill him, so he says no. That he did it to himself, that he went too far. That he’s a masochist and likes it rough. But that his partner is nothing but caring.

And then he gets to meet the man who called it in.

It’s his upstairs neighbor. Derek saw him when he first moved in and had stupidly gone out to the balcony before Kate had forcibly reminded him that he wasn’t allowed outside at all. He still doesn’t know how he managed to hide Mikey’s card while she beat him near unconscious for disobeying one of her rules.

Sometimes, when things aren’t so bad with Kate, Derek imagines that it’s his upstairs neighbor taking care of him.

And then Kate always finds out that he was dreaming of someone else and punishes him.

Derek’s only relief has been calling the crisis hotline and talking to Mikey. He got too complacent and relied on Mikey to help talk him through the things that Kate wouldn’t let him learn. And then the pandemic happened, and Derek was stuck with Kate again. She’d quickly reminded him that he belonged to her, not some half-imagined person who would be nothing but kind if Derek could just get upstairs.

Stiles expresses frustration when Derek won’t condemn Kate, but Derek knows Kate will find him even if he tries to leave. He tried once, went to a shelter, and was turned away. Kate found him when he was climbing back in the window.

She’d tied him to the bed, boiled a pot of water, and then poured it over his back and legs while he sobbed about how sorry he was and that it was a mistake.

She nailed every window shut and installed the sensors on the doors while he healed.

And he hasn’t tried to leave ever since.

Kate spends one night in jail before Derek manages to convince the officers to let her out.

She pretends to be oh-so-worried and demands to know who could have done this, but when no one is looking, she pinches his nipple, lets him know in an undertone just what she is going to do if he can’t make up enough lies to convince the hospital that he wasn’t abused.

Derek sees the knowing looks Stiles gives him. He knows that Stiles knows the truth, saw what the apartment was like before it could be cleaned and put to order again. He knows that Stiles knows he’s lying now.

Kate asks to get Stiles banned from the hospital room, and Derek doesn’t fight it.

Then, two days after being admitted, Derek signs out AMA and goes back to his prison.

Kate remains sweet for almost a week afterward. She must have been scared by the night in jail.

Derek doesn’t take advantage of it. How can he? She takes the week off from work and spends every single moment with him.

He still has to cook and clean, and they have sex a bunch of times. It doesn’t really hurt. Things have either healed, or Derek’s become numb to it.

She even allows him out on the balcony.

Sometimes Stiles is already outside, and if he isn’t, he comes out. Kate sneers at him, flipping him off as he watches them.

Derek just enjoys the warmth of the sun on his face and pretends not to notice that Kate is becoming more tightly coiled. She’s getting ready to strike, and because Stiles is upstairs, Derek will be her target. As always.

When she finally snaps, it’s brutal. She beats him with a pan he was planning to use for stovetop burgers. He thinks his jaw breaks with the first blow, and then it’s just trying to protect his head while she hits him over and over again.

Having been at the hospital, Derek feels braver than he has in a long time, and he throws his head back and howls when she clamps the chastity device on him, trying to sound him with the attachment at the same time.

She slams the pan against his head one last time, and he thinks this is it: either she kills him or he leaves.

He kind of hopes he won’t wake up.

~ * ~

Derek lands back in the hospital barely a week after his discharge. His face is a fucking mess because Kate tried to smash it off. There was also some kind of mousetrap thing locked onto his genitals when Stiles slammed into the apartment.

This time, Kate is locked up for good. Well, until she makes bail, but Derek hasn’t regained consciousness so Stiles can’t tell him yet.

The doctors think he’ll be okay once he wakes up. They say that Derek is the one making himself sleep, which is good. More sleep means faster healing.

Thirty-four hours later, Derek wakes up, finds out Kate’s in jail, and that he has to testify. Then, he’s ready to be discharged again against AMA. At least Kate isn’t waiting back at the apartment to finish the job.

Stiles has no doubt that if he hadn’t broken the sliding door, she would have killed Derek. She was already raising the pan for another blow when he tackled her away.

“He’ll need somewhere to go until his family gets him,” Stiles tells one of the nurses the morning of Derek’s discharge. “But he can’t go back to his apartment. His girlfriend has been horribly abusing him. She might kill him. She’s getting out on bail this afternoon.”

The nurse shrugs, opening the door. “You can’t stop them if they want to keep going back.”

“I don’t want to go back,” Derek says through his wired jaw. “I want to leave.”

Stiles knows from his conversations with Derek through the hotline that he has nowhere to go. Kate has so thoroughly isolated Derek that he didn’t know his parents died in a house fire three years ago and that his siblings have been hiring private investigators to look for him.

Stiles met one of those private investigators yesterday before allowing him to talk to Derek. Derek’s sisters are arriving in three days to collect him.

That was a hell of a shock for Derek.

Until Laura and Cora arrive, Derek needs somewhere to stay so that Kate can’t kill him.

“Why doesn’t he stay with you?” the nurse suggests. “You’ve already saved him twice. What’s once more?”

She hands Derek a list of instructions and then bustles away.

“Would you?” Stiles asks at the same time that Derek says, “What’s her deal?”

“What?” Derek asks. “Would I what?”

“Would you stay with me?” Stiles asks. “I know you don’t know me, but I know you.”

Derek just stares at him with his one good eye. The other took a hit from the pan and is swollen shut. The doctors say the eye is just fine though. The retina didn’t even detach.

Stiles sticks out his hand. “Hello, Derek. My name is Mieczysław Stilinski, also known as Stiles, or more commonly as Mikey.”

“Mikey?” Derek repeats, sounding a little hollow. “The crisis hotline Mikey?”

“The same,” Stiles says. “I’m sorry it took so long to get you away from Kate, but now you have an opportunity to go where she can’t follow. I am offering you a place to stay just until your family arrives. Will you accept?”

Derek doesn’t answer, just rolls over, and pretends to go back to sleep.

Stiles has time. Derek doesn’t. Either he’s coming with him or he’s going back to Kate. Life or death. Derek has until 3:00 p.m. to make up his mind.

~ * ~

Derek doesn’t have a lot to his name. He goes with Stiles to the apartment, picks up what he can find from before his life with Kate, and then follows him up to 16-B.

Stiles takes the couch, has a bat with him, and slips a broom handle into the groove of the sliding door.

Derek will be in the bedroom with the window locked and the curtains drawn.

It’s so eerily similar to how he was living with Kate that it doesn’t take Derek long at all to slip back into the silence that was expected of him. He explores the kitchen and starts cooking a simple stir fry from ingredients he finds in the freezer. Stiles just watches him with a furrowed brow.

He doesn’t say anything though, and eventually goes back to staring out at the balcony like he expects Kate to appear at any time.

After supper, when Derek immediately begins to wash the dishes, Stiles takes him by the arm and leads him to the couch. He sits him down and goes back to the kitchen. He returns shortly with an ice pack.

“For the bruises on your face. I heard the doctors say that it would be good to ice it off and on to help reduce swelling.”

Then, he climbs onto the back of the couch so that his feet are next to Derek without touching him.

Kate never sat like that, so it’s different enough that Derek doesn’t retreat into his head.

“I’m here,” Stiles says, carefully, hands twitching like he wants to reach out and reassure with touch. Derek is thankful he doesn’t. He feels like he’s all edge, razor sharp to cut anyone unfortunate enough to brush up against him. “I’ll always be here. I won’t let her hurt you ever again.”

Derek shifts a little, adjusting the ice pack on his face. Kate really did do a number this time. He’s positive that if Stiles hadn’t come when he did, Derek would be dead right now. Instead, his sisters are coming to get him.

He won’t ever have to see Kate again. Until he has to testify at her trial.

He also won’t ever see Stiles again, and that makes him a little sad. It was the fantasy of Stiles that kept him going these past two years.

“That’s the thing,” Derek says, muffled from his broken jaw and swollen tongue. “She always gets what she wants. I don’t know if I’m even strong enough to leave her. It’s just a matter of time before she comes to get me, and I go back with her.”

“You’ll probably end up dead if you do,” Stiles points out as gently as he can.

Derek nods in agreement. It’s not like it’s a secret. “I wish you could stay with me forever.”

And he knows it’s just transference, but he also knows, somehow, that Stiles will be better for him than Kate ever was.

“You know I can’t,” Stiles says. “I have a whole life here, and you need to find yours. Live a little, Derek. How long have you been under Kate’s thumb?”

Derek knows Stiles isn’t expecting an exact answer, but Derek gives him one anyway: “Seven years, six months, and fifteen days. I’ll be twenty-one in November.”

“I did not need another reminder of just how shitty a person Kate Argent is,” Stiles says, a little angry. It’s obvious he’s trying to keep his temper in check. Derek shudders and huddles down anyway, waiting for him to lose that battle.

Stiles sighs. “And you’re not ready for another person in your life. You’re already going to see your sisters, who you haven’t seen in seven years, six months, and fifteen days. Things aren’t going to be that simple.”

Derek laughs, a little hysterical. “It should be that simple,” he says. “Kate is gone. She can’t do anything to me again.”

Stiles shakes his head. “You’re jumpy,” he points out. “You cooked without being prompted. You have a lot of trauma that you have to work through. Kate treated you like her property for almost eight years. You don’t just get over that in a few days.”

“I don’t want to give you up,” Derek says, a little sullenly. “The thought of you was all that kept me going sometimes.”

Stiles frowns. He’s angry again. Derek swallows the rest of his words.

“Tell you what,” Stiles says. “Go with your sisters, go to therapy—trust me, you need a lot of it. I’m not even sure you know all your triggers, and I don’t know if you ever will—and in a few years, if I still cross your mind, look me up.”

Stiles grabs a pad of paper and a pen and scribbles down a number and a bunch of letters that Derek thinks is his name. It’s not Mikey or Stiles, and he doesn’t know how to pronounce it.

“I won’t change my number. I promise. Call me in three years, Derek, not a day before.”

“Three years from today?” Derek asks.

“Three years from when you leave this state.”

Derek folds the paper up as small as he can and tucks it in the little pocket on his jeans that is for pocket watches. He feels chastised somehow even though he thinks that wasn’t Stiles’ intention.

“It’s not just because I’m so young, is it?” he asks. He would guess Stiles to be in his late twenties. Not that much older than him.

Stiles shakes his head. “It’s because you’re severely traumatized. You’ve just gotten out of a terrible situation. You’re in no state to be messed with like that. I won’t help that bitch hurt you.”

“Okay.” Derek hands Stiles the ice pack and goes to the bedroom. At the door, he turns back. Stiles is still just sitting on the back of the couch, looking at him. “Thank you.” Then he closes the door, and because he can, he locks it too.

~ * ~

~ Three Years Later ~

Derek hands his phone to his therapist and watches as she dials the number he long ago memorized. The paper is so folded that the ink has begun fading away, the edges worn so thin and the folds so creased that Derek is afraid it will disintegrate when he touches it anymore.

The phone starts ringing and Jerri puts it on speakerphone.

“You’ve got Stiles,” a voice Derek hasn’t heard in three years and a few days says, and just like that, he’s sitting on Stiles’ couch wondering why Stiles didn’t want him.

“Hey, this is Derek Hale’s phone,” Jerri says. “It’s been three years.”

She keeps an eye on Derek as he sits back in what’s become his chair.

Stiles sighs. “Is Derek there?”

Jerri gives him a questioning look, and he nods.

“Yes he is.”

“Does he want to speak with me?”

Instead of answering, Derek grabs the phone. He doesn’t take it off speaker phone. Whatever they talk about, he’ll probably just tell Jerri anyway. They need to talk about how Stiles’ voice is a trigger for Derek too. He was right, all those years ago, Stiles was, that Derek wouldn’t know what would and wouldn’t trigger him. And that he wouldn’t know all of them either.

Both his sisters had to give up wearing perfume around him and if he smells strawberries, he is likely to vomit on the spot, but he is getting better. Jerri is working with him on aversion therapy. It’s very slow going.

“Hey, Stiles,” Derek says after a long moment. He waits impatiently, chewing on his thumbnail.

“Hey, Derek,” Stiles says, carefully. “How’s it going?”

“Going well,” Derek answers honestly. “At therapy right now.”

“Yeah? And how’s it going?”

“I still think about you a lot,” he says. “I used to fantasize, you know, with Kate, when it wasn’t so bad, that it was actually you. That you wouldn’t hurt me.”

Stiles stays quiet.

“I don’t know if it would really be like that with you, but I really want to try. Are you still in New York?”

“Ah, no, actually. I moved. My dad had a heart attack and I wanted to be closer to him before he ultimately bites the dust. I’m in Beacon Hills. California.”

“Oh,” Derek says brightly. “I’m in Redding. My sisters moved there after our parents died. Redding’s only, like, thirty minutes from Beacon Hills. Do you want to meet up for, like, coffee or something?”

Stiles blows a breath into the phone. “Am I still on speakerphone?”

“How’d you…? Yes.”

“Do you think it’s a good idea for Derek to meet me?” Stiles asks. “I’m talking to you, Derek’s therapist.”

Jerri smiles. “I think it could be good. But I’d also suggest going slow. Derek can bring someone he trusts with him. Stiles, you can do the same.”

“Okay. So, coffee. I’ll bring my best friend Scott. Are we meeting in Redding or Beacon Hills?”

“Redding,” Jerri answers for Derek. “Thank you, Stiles, but Derek and I need to finish his session now.”

“No problem. Hey, Derek, good work, dude. I’m so proud of you.”

Jerri takes Derek’s phone and hangs up. “Do you want to talk about the effect of his voice on you?” she asks kindly.

Derek nods.

~ * ~

Stiles doesn’t think he’s ever been this nervous before. It’s just coffee to see how Derek is. Obviously, his ordeal with Kate Argent is still affecting his life, but it seems like he’s taking care of himself.

Stiles had given his number to both Cora and Laura when they’d come to collect Derek, in case they had any questions about their brother that they didn’t feel comfortable asking him.

After another six months at the crisis center, Stiles’ dad had suffered a heart attack, prompting his return to California. And that is where he discovered that he and Derek were originally from the same town.

He’d followed Kate’s trial as well. It kept being pushed back after she waived her right to a speedy trial, and finally, after a year and a half, she’d been on trial, only to plead out just before Derek would have to testify.

She’s currently serving fifteen-to-thirty years for what she did to Derek.

Scott pats Stiles’ shoulder. “I’m sure things are going to be okay,” he says. “It’s the guy you helped save! He likes you.”

“I’m sure it’s still runoff from the rescue. I mean, he got a double whammy: I was his crisis hotline counselor and his upstairs neighbor.” Stiles shakes his head. “I just wish I’d been a little nosier. Kate can’t have abused him only when I was at work.”

“But it was the lockdown that kept you home so you could hear. Stiles, things have worked out. Breathe a little, would you?”

Stiles does and then chokes on his breath when an absolutely stunning guy walks into the coffee shop.

That’s definitely Derek. He’s a little broader than Stiles remembers, more sure of himself, not trying to make himself as small as he can. He catches sight of Stiles and smiles, waving. There’s scar through his eyebrow, no doubt a relic from Kate, and his jaw is a little off center, but he looks genuinely happy.

Trailing him is Laura. She exchanges pleasantries with Scott while Stiles and Derek just stare at each other.

“It’s really good to see you,” Derek finally says. His voice is lighter, more carefree. Could be an act, but Stiles doesn’t think so.

“It’s good to see you too,” Stiles says.

They make idle chitchat over coffee, and after about an hour, Laura gently touches Derek’s arm, interrupting him in the middle of describing the art classes he’s taking at the community college.

“I’m sure Stiles and Scott have things they need to do. We should be going too. We promised to pick up Cora from her date, remember?”

Derek looks disappointed.

Stiles almost tells them that he has no other plans, but he also doesn’t want to overwhelm Derek at their first meeting.

“Hey,” he says, getting Derek’s attention, “you have my number. Just give me a call when you’re ready for another coffee session.”

“Cool. Thanks!” Derek allows Laura to pull him out of his seat. They head for the door, and Stiles watches them go.

He thinks it went well.

Scott nudges him. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Well, I saw you totally checking him out! He’s hot, isn’t he? Are you going to finally allow him in your pants?”

Stiles blushes, shaking his head. “I don’t think he’s quite ready for that yet.” His phone buzzes, and he digs it out. Scott leans over his shoulder and reads the text too.

“I think he’s more than ready,” Scott says, with a wink.

Derek had sent a picture of himself, a smirk on his lips, the caption: can we meet again soon?

Stiles turns off the screen. “We’re going to take it slow,” he tells Scott. “We still have to learn each other. Who knows, we could be the worst thing for each other.”

“I don’t think so. I think Derek’s already had the worst thing ever. He’s healing, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe you’re right and you break up, but you won’t know if you don’t try. He’s obviously willing, even after three years. Go for it, dude. No one’s going to get mad at you for shooting your shot. Least of all Derek.”

Stiles unlocks his phone again, studies the picture. “You know what, you’re right.” He sends a return picture of himself, coffee cup held next to his head. The caption: is tomorrow too soon?

Derek just sends back a smiley face.

Tomorrow is just soon enough.

~ End ~

**Author's Note:**

> For those who read [Just a Moment Too Late](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26460295/chapters/65757442), this was the unwritten story referenced in the final chapter.
> 
> In order of appearance the other stories were:  
> [Holidays with the Stilinski-Hales](https://archiveofourown.org/series/900153) with [Giving You Something to Remember](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14774588) and [Lifejacket](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15169040)  
> [HKN](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5846251/chapters/13474810)  
> [In Your Little Werewolf Oven](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23387446)  
> [Pennies and Dimes for a Kiss](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15550791)  
> [This Feeling Down Deep in My Soul](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15160736)  
> [Every Second Dripping Off My Fingertips](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21811999)  
> [Cherry On Top](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12931131/chapters/29550294)  
> This story  
> [Scars to Your Beautiful](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25021030)
> 
> Side note: I am tired of feeling like my content is consumed without any feedback. It makes staying motivated very difficult. If you like my writing, let me know. Either comment on the damn stories or fucking send me a message on [Tumblr](https://1989dreamer.tumblr.com). Help me not feel like a fucking imposter.


End file.
